we
gladly join with other nations in the free interchange of manufactures,
and gratify our eye and taste with what is foreign, while we can in turn
send abroad our own productions in equal ratio."

"Upon my word," said Miss Featherstone, "I should think it was the
Fourth of July,--but I yield the point. I am convinced; and henceforth
you will see me among the most stringent of the leaguers."

"Right!" said I.

And, fair lady-reader, let me hope you will say the same. You can do
something for your country,--it lies right in your hand. Go to the
shops, determined on supplying your family and yourself with American
goods. Insist on having them; raise the question of origin over every
article shown to you. In the Revolutionary times, some of the leading
matrons of New England gave parties where the ladies were dressed in
homespun and drank sage-tea. Fashion makes all things beautiful, and
you, my charming and accomplished friend, can create beauty by creating
fashion. What makes the beauty of half the Cashmere shawls? Not anything
in the shawls themselves, for they look coarse and dingy. It is the
association with style and fashion. Fair lady, give style and fashion to
the products of your own country,--resolve that the money in your hand
shall go to your brave brothers, to your co-Americans, now straining
every nerve to uphold the nation, and cause it to stand high in the
earth. What are you without your country? As Americans you can hope for
no rank but the rank of your native land, no badge of nobility but her
beautiful stars. It rests with this conflict to decide whether those
stars shall be badges of nobility to you and your children in all lands.
Women of America, your country expects every woman to do her duty!

HAWTHORNE.

It is with a sad pleasure that the readers of this magazine will see in
its pages the first chapter of "The Dolliver Romance," the latest record
of Nathaniel Hawthorne meant for the public eye. The charm of his
description and the sweet flow of his style will lead all who open upon
it to read on to the closing paragraph. With its harmonious cadences the
music of this quaint, mystic overture is suddenly hushed, and we seem to
hear instead the tolling of a bell in the far distance. The procession
of shadowy characters which was gathering in our imaginations about the
ancient man and the little child who come so clearly before our sight
seems to fade away, and in its place a slow-pacing